To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!
It was a golden crown—its iron band
The brows had girdled of a race of kings;
He bore it to his own with his white hand,
As some ringed bauble of those weary things
Great hearts despise—e’en when they spell the world
With their poor lustre. As he lifted it,
His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,
And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—
“God gave it me. Beware who touches,” fell